


Little Wings

by Pixelfun20



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Hermitcraft RPF, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Baby Wilbur, Everything Is Canon, F/M, Family Fluff, Gen, He's a pretty good dad, Married Couple, Not RPF, Parent Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), Phil Watson-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Philza Minecraft's A- Parenting, Pixel starts another fic, Pre-Canon, Techno and Tommy show up later, Watchers, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Wingfic, except Wilbur and Tommy are biological brothers, my explanation for why Phil has wings, pog - Freeform, that she probably won't finish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-11
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:54:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29981091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pixelfun20/pseuds/Pixelfun20
Summary: When Wilbur is born, the only thing Philza Craft wants is for him to take after his mother in all the ways that matter. It seems to serve him right that he inherit all of her features, and only take from him for the trait he dreaded.Over time, though, he starts to wonder if this is really such a bad thing.
Relationships: Charles | Grian & Phil Watson, Kristin Rosales Watson/Phil Watson, Phil Watson & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 6
Kudos: 71





	Little Wings

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is meant to be around 90% canon to the SMP :). Hope you like it!

His son was tiny.

Philza held his tiny, tiny son, a son who barely fit into the crook of his arm, as the midwives hustled around him, cleaning up the mess of birth and making sure his wife was recovering properly. In a few moments, he knew it would be her turn to hold him, to see the product of twenty-six hours of painstaking labor, but for now he held his son.

He looked like he was barely human, in all honesty. Red, wrinkled skin, and the barest hint of curly brown hair that was entirely his mother. Phil hardly even saw himself in the child; he was the spitting image of his mother, in the shape of his eyes, ears, and nose, in his tiny balled-up hands and scrunched-up face, displeased at being thrown out into the world.

What relieved him most, however, was his lack of wings.

Phil hadn’t been sure if his child would inherit the trait that made him nearly unique in the world. Kristin was completely human, and if their son took after her in species as well as appearance, everything would be better for it.

His son’s little face scrunched up even more as he rocked the babe, before sucking in a long breath and  _ wailing _ , a strong scream that announced his entrance into the world. Phil let out a long breath, as one of the midwives tapped his shoulder, guiding him towards his wife. 

He sat down at a seat on her bedside, and Kristin looked up at him with a smile that screamed pure exhaustion.

“Small but healthy,” he said, passing him over. Kristin watched as the squirming, crying child was set on her chest, her eyes filled with no small amount of wonder.

“Shit, Phil, did we make this?” She asked quietly, holding their son to her chest. Phil laughed.

“Yes,” he replied, leaning down and holding them close. “I suppose we did.”

* * *

At birth, Wilbur Wynn Craft weighed five pounds and seven ounces. He was small even for a newborn, small enough that one of the midwives stayed with them for almost a week after the birth, to make sure he wasn’t premature or had more issues with his weight. 

That week was terrifying.

Not really because of Wilbur’s size, no, the midwife was fairly confident by day two that he would be fine, given enough milk. Phil spent that week hardly leaving Wilbur’s side, scared that he would somehow sprout wings or display some other sort of inhuman ability inherited from his father.

But no. For all intents and purposes, Wilbur was a normal, if a little colic, baby. He was a winter boy, born in mid-January, and Kristin, though still recovering from the birth, was already putting him in little booties and hooded onesies that the two of them had made months prior. They were huge on him, both parents expecting a child around seven or eight pounds, like Kristin had been, but that just seemed to make the boy even cuter.

On day three, Wilbur opened his eyes long enough for them to discern the color. Philza was ecstatic to see a bright blue before the midwife reminded him that a baby’s eyes were always blue in the first months of life, and then he was groaning in defeat as he realized that they’d most likely darken into Kristin’s shade of chocolate brown. His wife just laughed at him, holding Wilbur close and giving him an eskimo kiss. 

The midwife left on day six, leaving some baby medicines behind, just in case. Philza was sure to tip her handsomely, before returning to his son’s side.

He’s a father. He can still hardly believe it. Considering all that’s happened in his life, he’d never even thought he’d live this long.

When Wilbur is four months old, his irises gain a ring of brown.

  
  


* * *

Phil felt like he’d hardly even closed his eyes when Wilbur started crying.

For a moment, he just groaned and threw his pillow over his ears, trying to catch a few precious seconds of slumber. Then Kristin was roused as well, turning in bed and tapping Phil on the shoulder.

“Your turn, honey,” she said sleepily, and Phil sighed before giving in, exposing himself to the chill of the nighttime air and wrapping himself in a bathrobe. He padded over to Wilbur’s crib, tucked in the corner of the room, and looked down at his son with more than a little exasperation.

As much as he loved his son, Wilbur had yet to learn how to sleep through even half the night. He was just under eight months old, now, still a little small for his age at eighteen pounds, but much bigger than the newborn he had been practically able to fit in one hand. His eyes, though scrunched up now, had just turned completely brown, the last wisps of Phil’s blue tucked away under the layers of melanin. 

“Alright, bud,” he said quietly, picking the boy up. Wilbur squirmed under his hands, screaming particularly loudly when he pulled him up, hands under the armpits. Phil just sighed, more than used to the behavior as he set Wilbur against his chest, rocking him softly. He left the room so Kristin could sleep on, walking into the small nursery they’d set up almost a year ago now. While Wilbur would hopefully be sleeping there by his first birthday, both parents felt it was best to keep him somewhere where he would be easily heard for now. 

He checked Wilbur’s diaper to see nothing, and then fed him half a bottle before he refused any more. Burping him only seemed to make his distress at the world worse, so Phil resigned to sitting down in the rocking chair and settling in for the long haul.

Usually Wilbur’s nighttime escapades didn’t last too long. A change of diaper or a feeding usually had him back in bed in twenty minutes, but in the last few days something seemed to be bothering him. He’d wake up at night and maybe he’d eat, but usually he just cried until he passed back out again.

This seemed to be one of those nights. Phil was a little concerned about it, but not so much so that he was going to bring a doctor out to his house in the middle of nowhere. Kristin’s birth had cost a fortune, living this far out, and while that had been more than worth it (those midwives had undoubtedly saved her life in one way or another), it was still expensive and some babies just had trouble sleeping.

At some point, Wilbur started to quiet, Phil’s eyes slipping shut even as the baby whimpered and sniffled into his shoulder.

It hardly seemed like a minute had passed before he was jerking awake to a hand on his shoulder, Kristin smiling down at him. The lantern had gone out, but sunlight was streaking through the room, now, illuminating them in a soft, golden light. 

“Ugh,” Phil groaned as Kristin just laughed, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. She took Wilbur (still blissfully asleep, thank the Sky Gods) from him, resting him against her shoulder as Phil rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, leaning over and stretching his back, wings extending far enough to brush the walls on either side of him. “Remind me to never sleep in that chair again.”

“You’re just getting old,” Kristin replied, brushing a hand through some of his feathers. Phil let out a long sigh at the touch, and she raised an eyebrow. “Come on. You can make breakfast and I’ll go on Wilbur duty for a bit, love.”

“Deal.” He said immediately, folding his wings back in and standing up. 

A few hours later, with breakfast eaten and most of the daily chores finished, the couple found themselves sitting outside. It was a beautiful day, the clouds fluffy cotton balls, and warm enough that Wilbur could be out in only a onesie. They laid a quilt out on the grass, setting Wilbur belly-down. Phil laid down in the same fashion, spreading out his wings, black and nearly iridescent in the sunlight. Kristin sat on his right side, carefully preening his right wing as they warmed in the late morning light. 

Lord, he needed to have Kristin do this more often. Her hands, lean and practiced from their five-year relationship, were deft and precise in her location of bent, old, and misplaced feathers. Wilbur certainly seemed a lot happier than the night prior, flopping around in a pseudo-crawl, sometimes waving up in an attempt to touch his father’s feathers, the wing hovering around a foot over the blanket. 

“Want to see, little guy?” Phil asked, shuddering as Kristin hit a particularly good spot on the other wing. He drew in the wing so that the very tips of his primaries brushed Wilbur’s nose. The boy sneezed, and Phil tapped him again, drawing out a giggle and a smile. 

“Aw,” Kristin cooed. “I’ve chosen a nice man to settle down with if you keep on playing with Wilby like that.”

“Mm,” Phil hummed, drawing the wing back again. “I chose a good wife who’s willing to preen for me, and do it so well at that.”

Kristin huffed, tugging on a feather hard enough that Phil sent her a look. She just laughed, a teasing look in her eyes as she combed through his feathers, smile falling a bit.

“I think something’s bothering Wilbur,” she said after a moment. Phil frowned, looking over at his son. Wilbur was still distracted by Phil’s wings. He’d pulled himself up into a sitting position, chubby hands reaching up his feathers.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“His back is sensitive,” she said, returning her attention to preening. “Every time I try to burp him he cries, and he won’t stay chest-up when I put him to sleep.”

“Really? It just seems to me like he’s fussy. Sometimes it takes a while for a baby to sleep properly.”

“There was a bit of a rash on his back this morning.”

Phil’s gaze snapped up. “What? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Oh, hush. It wasn’t too bad, just a bit of redness. I put some lotion on it and that seemed to help, but I think we should consider getting him some clothes not made out of cotton. Perhaps he’s a bit allergic to it.”

“Allergic to cotton? That’s a thing?”

“Rarely, but it’s a possibility. I put him in polyester today, and Wilbur seems to be enjoying it.”

Phil huffed, wincing as a sharp pain lanced up his left wing. It was gone as soon as it came, and he turned to see that in his distraction, Wilbur had gotten his hands on one of his secondary feathers. The boy just laughed at his father’s slight annoyance, blowing a raspberry and waving his hands up and down, rocking his body.

“Aw, just look how much he loves his daddy,” Kristin teased, ruffling Phil’s hair. 

Wilbur raised the feather to his mouth, trying to eat it.

“Wilbur,  _ no _ !”

* * *

Wilbur’s rash only got worse.

What started as a slight reddening around the shoulder blades grew until it was almost bumpy, encompassing the entire upper back but worse in the center. The skin was hot to the touch, and three days later he developed a fever.

Four days after Kristin noticed the beginnings of Wilbur’s rash, it was just before dawn and Phil was trying desperately to rock him into a few minutes of sleep. Nothing seemed to soothe him, not the baby medicine, not rocking or lotion. The progress they’d made with starting to transition him to more solid foods was lost, and he even struggled with nursing or taking a bottle. 

They were going to need a doctor. Phil shushed Wilbur for what felt like the thousandth time that night, rocking him from side to side as his son cried, tiny body exhausted from lack of sleep. His hair, usually wispy and fluffy with Kristin’s curls, was stuck to his forehead with sweat.

Finally, as the sun crested the horizon, Wilbur’s cries softened into sniffles, and then stopped almost entirely as he relaxed into a fitful slumber. Phil let out a long breath, setting Wilbur down on the changing table, back-up. 

“I’m so sorry, kiddo,” he whispered, running his hand over Wilbur’s head, so small and vulnerable. He’d catch a few hours of sleep, and leave him and Kristin at the house later today to fetch a doctor, because it broke his heart to see his son suffering like this.

He turned his attention to the rash. It was getting worse, even worse than it’d been the night before. There were two distinct bumps now, around the shoulderblades, with dozens of smaller ones in between them. Phil ghosted his fingers over one of the major bumps, and even with such slight a touch, Wilbur flinched in his sleep. 

He winced with him, mind flickering back to the days he’d tried so hard to forget. When the pain in his back took over his entire existence, leaving him writhing on the floor for who knows how long in the days before his wings grew.

He froze.

Phil looked at the rash closer. The two main bumps, right in the position where Phil’s wings were. The numerous smaller bumps, that were almost like…  _ quills _ .

“... _ Shit _ .”

Phil couldn’t call a doctor. They wouldn’t be able to do anything in time. 

He felt cold. 

_ This is his fault. _

He’d thought that Wilbur would either be born with wings or without them. He had entertained the idea of him growing them in adolescence, perhaps, but never had he thought that the wings would grow in the time in between.

What else would happen while he was a child? How much of Phil’s abilities would Wilbur inherit?

“Phil? Are you alright?”

He was crying. Kristin sighed, putting her hands up to his face and brushing away his tears. He just shook his head a bit, leaning into her touch. What had he done to deserve a family like this?

“This is my fault,” he said, leaning into her hair. 

“What do you mean by that?”

“Wilbur’s growing wings.” Kristin stilled underneath him. “I’m sorry.”

“He’ll be okay, won’t he?”

“...I was. But I was a lot older then. And…” he shuddered. “I never want anyone to go through that kind of pain.”

“If he lives through it, then we can help him. Besides,” she smiled at him. “He’ll finally take after you in some way.”

“I think you’ve won the war there, honey.” He gave a watery chuckle.

“Eh, I think I’ll let you win a battle.”

He shook his head a bit, smelling her hair. It wasn’t the nicest smell, not after a week after caring for a sick baby, but it was distinctly  _ her,  _ and for that he was grateful.

“What are we going to do?” He asked quietly.

“Honey, I believe you’re going to be teaching our boy how to fly.”

* * *

“ _ Phil! _ ”

Phil’s eyes snapped open. Immediately he was trying to get up, wings expanding on instinct and subsequently getting tangled in the sheets. The next moment he was aware of Wilbur screaming, somehow even harder than he had been the last few days. 

Heart thudding in his chest, Phil struggled out of bed, shouting down a “Coming!” to Kristin. A quick glance at the clock said it was around two in the afternoon, which meant that he’d been asleep for forty-five minutes. Not much, but the adrenaline had him sprinting down the stairs to the living room, where Kristin had taken Wilbur earlier, before he’d gone to grab a quick nap.

Kristin was bouncing Wilbur in the middle of the room, a hand resting on Wilbur’s lower back. She turned to him, displaying Wilbur’s back to him, and suddenly everything made sense. 

The lumps on his back had finally burst, sending small droplets of blood down his son’s skin. Wilbur was clearly in a lot of pain, fists scrunched up in his mother’s shirt as he cried into her shoulder. Kristin whispered comforting words into his hair, and Phil hurried to her, holding out his arms. She passed Wilbur to him, and the boy instantly latched onto him, crying harder, if it was even possible.

They’d already discussed what to do. For even though Wilbur was so young and had no clue what was happening, he was at home with two people who loved him, which was more than Phil had ever had.

Drawing on his own experiences, on memories he hadn’t dwelt on in years, Phil massaged the heated skin around the emerging wings, gently encouraging the limbs to emerge from their confines and relieve their stress on Wilbur’s unbroken skin. Wilbur squirmed at the touch, still screaming, and Phil kissed the side of his head, whispering gentle encouragements, pretending that he knew exactly what he was doing. 

Kristin returned a few minutes later, brow furrowed with worry, but she said nothing about it. Instead, she copied Phil in speaking reassuringly to Wilbur, taking a wet cloth and dabbing away at the blood. 

The next hour went much the same. Wilbur, thank the sky gods, didn’t lose even a fraction of blood Phil had, even if you accounted for the difference in age when it had occurred. It broke his heart to see the wounds, but it also signalled to him that the worst was finally almost over.

And when it, at long last, was, Wilbur was sporting two new appendages on his back.

The baby was conked out by then, in the deepest, stillest sleep he’d had in weeks. Phil slumped down on the couch, exhaustion finally kicking in, but he forced himself to stay awake as Kristin sat down next to him, both of them looking down at the new “wings.”

“I’ll admit, they don’t look like I thought they would,” his wife admitted, leaning her head on Phil’s shoulders. 

“It took a week for my wings to even get a decent amount of fluff on them,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. “And a few months before I had enough feathers to even glide.”

Kristin just hummed in response. The entire family was exhausted from the wild ride that was Wilbur’s new wings, and now that they were out, Phil really could marvel at what a work of art they were. In all honesty, calling them “wings” was a bit of a stretch. They were mostly bones right now, covered in a thin layer of flesh and skin that they’d need to keep clean and uncovered for the next week or so, until the limbs fully adjusted to existing outside the body.

How far back would this set Wilbur in his development? He was just beginning to learn how to crawl, currently propelling himself in (adorable) belly flops in an attempt to get where he wanted to go. They’d already taken him off solid foods for the duration of the wings’ appearance, and Wilbur had always been attached to the bottle. 

A finger poked his cheek. 

“Stop thinking,” Kristin huffed, shooting him a look. “I don’t know about you, but I’m taking this opportunity to  _ sleep. _ ”

Phil laughed quietly, glancing down at Wilbur’s face, completely at peace. He wrapped a wing around his wife, letting her get comfortable before resting it around her as a makeshift blanket.

Kristin did have a point. Some decent sleep would be nice.

* * *

The wings did set Wilbur back. A lot. Just as it had been with Phil, there were a lot of movements to relearn, and he didn’t end up crawling for another five weeks. Food went down a bit better when Kristin discovered his love for sweet potatoes. Whenever she’d come to give some to him, Wilbur’s wings, now covered in a soft layer of down, would expand from excitement, hopping up and down in his highchair. 

Said wings weren’t anything to boast about yet. They didn’t mature at nearly the same rate as Phil’s had, but then again, he supposed that Wilbur’s wings were growing along with the rest of his body, instead of solely on their own. He didn’t even know if they  _ would _ fully mature; for all he knew Wilbur’s wings would end up being vestigial, too small or weak for him to use to glide or fly. 

Those thoughts flitted through Phil’s head on a sleepless night four months later. Wilbur was almost a year old now; his birthday was in a week and Kristin was already preparing for it. For Phil, the occasion gave him an odd feeling of pure joy, tinged with a bit of bittersweetness. January 17th was as much an occasion for him as it was for his son, and the idea of being around for it made him giddy in a way he couldn’t describe. 

Perhaps that was why he was still awake at one in the morning. Wilbur had recently started sleeping through the night, now that his wings were out, but Phil still found himself instinctually listening for crying coming from the nursery. 

Kristin didn’t seem to have the same insomnia. Every night  _ she  _ was able to fall asleep within fifteen minutes flat. 

Phil sighed, deciding that he wasn’t getting anywhere from staring at the wall. Gently, he removed his right wing from where he’d draped it over Kristin, tucking the two limbs in as he slipped out of bed. Thankfully, she didn’t wake up as he tiptoed out of the room. 

As he headed downstairs, he paused to peek inside Wilbur’s room. They’d finally moved him into the nursery two weeks ago, confident that he was old enough now to make it through the night without their presence. It had been a bit of a learning curve for their son, but he finally seemed to be settling in, currently sleeping belly-down in his crib, wings spread wide in fluffy baby feathers. They were still tiny, hardly brushing the sides of the crib, but they fluttered a bit in his sleep. 

He moved on, shaking his head a bit as a smile graced his face. After the whole disaster that was the growth of Wilbur’s wings, seeing him sleep peacefully every night felt like a blessing long deserved. 

But anyways, it was one in the morning and he needed to sleep before he was too tired to get any work down the next day. He left the nursery behind and creeped downstairs to the kitchen, filling a kettle with water and lighting the stove for it to boil. He pulled open one of the curtains as he waited, watching the stars outside.

His and Kristin’s little cottage was situated a ways away from even the nearest village in an attempt to keep a semblance of anonymity. The house was surrounded on all sides by open plains, with a forest to the west, and brush that led to the ocean to the east. Everything was covered in a decent layer of snow at this time of year, but in the summer the land seemed to be alight with green shrubbery. The two of them kept up a small farm to sustain themselves, and Phil had recently started fishing in order to bring in a few extra bucks from the village an hour’s walk to the south (ten minutes if you flew, though, which was much more manageable). 

The kettle whistled. Phil pulled it off of the stove, pouring the boiling water into a mug and adding a teabag. He turned his gaze back outside. It had just snowed the day before, leaving a smooth blanket of glimmering white against the speckled black sky.

Something shifted in the dark. An animal? He’d thought that most of the big ones had gone, either south or to hibernate for the winter. He looked closer.

And saw a dark shape against the sky. Phil’s breath caught in his throat as he watched the shape move, making out  _ wings _ and an otherwise humanoid shape.

Phil cursed under his breath, stepping away from the window and racing upstairs. 

“Kristin!” He called out, throwing open the door to their bedroom. Kristin shifted in bed, saying something that was jumbled with sleep. “Kristin there’s someone outside. They have wings.”

_ That _ woke her up. Kristin was out of bed in an instant, pulling on a long-sleeved shirt. Phil threw open their wardrobe, grabbing a diamond sword from where it had sat on its pedestal, along with a crossbow. He was back down the stairs a second later, Kristin racing to the nursery. 

Putting the sword in his inventory, Phil loaded the crossbow and threw open the front door. The snow-chilled air went ignored as he swept the open plains for the shape he had seen. 

_ There _ . A few feet out from the forest’s tree line was a figure in the snow. Without a second thought, Phil fired the crossbow. The figure dropped to the ground, leaving the arrow to fly into the trees, but Phil wasn’t waiting for that, already loading another and firing. The figure barely dodged again, wings flaring out as they propelled themselves away. 

“Vimsen! Vimsen, it’s me!” The figure shouted, throwing their— _ her— _ hands into the air. “Xelqua sent me!”

Phil paused, halfway through reloading his crossbow.

“ _ Maufa?” _ He called out, incredulous. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Xelqua sent me,” she repeated, trembling. “Please. You’re the only one I could go to without them finding me.”

Phil didn’t reply immediately, considering. It  _ could _ be a trap, but only Grian knew where he was living. That meant that if “Xelqua” had given her this information, then it had been freely given. Grian did not give up knowledge he didn’t want someone else to know.

_ Dammit, Gri. _

He finished loading the crossbow, but lowered it as he approached her. In the starlight, the figure cleared until he was looking at a small, lithe woman with light brown hair streaked with gray. Her eyes were a bright sea green looking up with him with a combination of hope and fear. Her wings shimmered a dull blue, long and slender. 

“Well,” he huffed, breath misting in front of his face. “You sure  _ look _ like Maufa.”

“Pearl,” she corrected him. Phil smiled down at her. “Pearlescent Moon.”

“Philza Craft,” he replied, giving her a hand. Relief echoing over her features, she took it, shaking the snow out of her wings as she stood. 

“Sorry for coming at this time of night,” she said.

“I was already awake. So did Grian finally get you out?” 

She nodded. “There was… a lapse. He got me out and told me to find you.”

“Oh, gods.” It finally hit him. Maufa, Pearl… she was standing right in front of him, when he’d thought that he’d never see her again. He finally relaxed, dropping the crossbow and pulling her into an embrace. She instantly hugged him back, shoulders shaking as she took shuddering breaths.

“I thought you were dead,” she said into his bathrobe. “I hardly believed it when Grian told me.”

“Oh, you know they would never catch me,” Phil replied, pulling back. “Come on. I happen to have some tea getting ready on the stove.” Pearl nodded, following Phil as he led her back to the house. “You gave me quite the scare, there.”

“Sorry. I didn’t want to alert anyone else I was coming.”

“No, that was smart. I’m just happy that you didn’t bring any danger to my family.”

“Family?”

“You’ll see. If Gri knew about them, then he wouldn’t have risked sending you to me.”

Pearl looked at him curiously, but Phil didn’t elaborate. The rest of their walk back to the house was quiet, and Phil remembered how cold it was outside when the warmth of the cottage hit his face upon their return.

“Kristin!” He called out, wringing his hands in an attempt to return some feeling to them. “It’s okay!” He opened the door, letting Pearl follow behind him. Her eyes were wide as she took in the house’s decorations. It wasn’t much, a living room, bathroom, and a kitchen, but it was likely more than she’d had for most of her life.

He pulled out a chair for Pearl, letting her sit down. He poured another cup for tea, thought, and then added a third for Kristin. He added tea bags for both, and set the cup that he’d made earlier in front of Pearl.

Kristin appeared in the stairwell a moment later. Wilbur was in her arms, thankfully not crying from being woken at this hour of the night. His wings flapped a few times as he caught sight of his father, before a yawn broke and he snuggled into Kristen’s chest, still half-asleep.

“Phil?” his wife asked, eyes flickering to Pearl warily. “Who is this?”

“This is Pearlescent Moon,” Phil said smoothly. “She knew me back in my… younger days. I mistook her for someone else. Pearl, this is Kristin, my wife. This little guy—” he ruffled one of Wilbur’s wings. “Is Wilbur, my son. He’s almost one.” He bent down and pressed a kiss to the crown of the baby’s head, prompting Wilbur to crack one of his eyes open and squirm blearily in Kristen’s arms. “Sorry for waking you up so early, little guy.”

“He’s going to be all grumpy in the morning,” Kristin sighed, sitting down. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to be taking Pearl’s look of absolute astonishment to heart, instead maneuvering Wilbur into a comfortable hold that didn’t pin down his wings.

“Better safe than sorry,” Phil replied, picking up the two mugs of tea. He set one in front of Kristin and the other for himself. “Are you planning to stay for a while, Pearl? We don’t have a guest bedroom, I’m afraid, but we can offer you the couch.”

“I…” to her credit, Pearl collected herself quickly. “I don’t know. Grian said he’d come by to fetch me when it was safe.”

Phil nodded. “It might be a little while, then.”

Pearl hesitantly raised the mug of tea to her lips, taking a sip and sighing at the taste. “I’m so sorry for barging in like this,” she apologised, eyes fixated on the floor before flickering over to Phil. “I had no idea you had… a family.”

_ I had no idea we could have children _ , is a silent message between them, and it hangs in the air like a heavy weight. 

“I didn’t think we could either,” Phil said aloud, drawing Kristin’s attention. “It’s okay to talk about these things with Kristin, Pearl. We had this conversation before we married; she knows everything I do. I wanted her to know what she was getting into.”

“He says, as if any of it would have changed my mind,” Kristin sniffed, winking at Pearl. The younger woman (really, barely out of her teenage years), relaxed a bit at that, offering a small smile in return. 

“We were changed… a lot,” Phil said, taking a long drink. After the chill of the night, it felt like fire in his throat. “And maybe it’s different for all of us. I mean, I  _ thought _ I was sterile, but,” he tilted his head, chuckling. “Kristin insisted that we at least  _ try _ , and look where we are now.”

“He has wings,” Pearl added, staring at the small appendages on Wilbur’s back. “I’ve never heard of someone being  _ born _ with the wings.”

“I’ve also never heard of an acolyte having children, yet here we are.” Phil glanced at Wilbur. He was swiftly on his way to dreamland, wings and nose twitching every now and again. “And he wasn’t born with them. They came in when he was eight months old.” Pearl winced, and he nodded. “I don’t know if they’ll fully mature, if I’m honest. I was hoping he’d be fully human in the first place, but who knows what he’s inherited from my side.”

“Well, at least he has you for a father,” Pearl said matter-of-factly. 

“That, I can agree with,” Kristen interrupted them. “Now, as much as I’d love to continue this, Wilbur is drooling on my shoulder. How about we go to bed and continue this conversation in the morning?”

“That sounds like a  _ great _ idea,” Phil replied, stifling a yawn at the thought of their bed. “Here, I’ll bring down some extra blankets for you, Pearl, and we’ll continue this when we have some sleep under our belts.”

* * *

During the week Pearl stayed with them, Phil and Kristin were slapped in the face with something they had  _ not _ taken into account when raising Wilbur.

Wilbur had only ever had meaningful interactions with his parents. Which meant that once he was fully awake, the mere sight of Pearl had him bursting into tears.

Wilbur had always been a bit clingy, but the first few days of Pearl’s stay made him even worse. Whenever Phil or Kristin tried to set him down, whether to play, eat, or change his diaper, he’d cry, reaching out towards them. Whenever Pearl was near, he’d cry, wings flaring out and flapping like Phil’s did when he was feeling threatened.

On the second day, tired beyond belief, Phil set Wilbur on one side of the living room, by his toys, and then flopped down on the couch on the opposite side. Thirty seconds later Wilbur had crawled over to him and grabbed his pants leg, tugging on it and crying.

“Jeez, kid,” he’d huffed, but had given in, picking him up and pulling him into his lap.

Kristin came up with the idea of making this a good lesson for their boy. They started with holding Wilbur and talking to Pearl on the other side of the room, in a sort of slow introduction. Thankfully, by day six he wasn’t freaking out by her mere presence, though touching definitely was still a big no-no.

But Phil was ready to forgive him of all that trouble for this one day, because, finally, it was January 17th. 

Kristin was currently teaching Pearl the basics of baking as they made the cake, while Phil played with Wilbur in the living room. It was lightly snowing outside, the curtains open to let the muted afternoon light shine through.

“There you go, buddy,” Phil laughed, sitting crossed-legged on the floor. He was holding Wilbur up by the hands, leading him around in shaky steps over the carpet. The boy had a look of utmost concentration, wings flared for balance as he stumbled over the woolen floor and plopped into his father’s lap. “Yeah! Just like that!”

Whether he understood the words or not, Wilbur laughed, clapping his hands before rocking in his lap and hitting him in the face with one of his wings. Phil blinked a few times, spitting out a feather before turning to the kitchen.

It was rare for an acolyte to be female. Phil wouldn’t lie; the acolytes were extremely male-dominated, and he could count on one hand the amount of women he’d met during his time there. Pearl had been one of those, and seeing her interact with Kristin now was heartwarming. Despite Wilbur’s… very vocal protests, the two had caught on like a house on fire. There were a lot of things Pearl didn’t know about human life, and Kristin was swiftly teaching her the basics of humanity that she’d had to teach Phil half a decade ago.

Bless that woman. Sometimes Phil could hardly believe how lucky he was. Seeing her interacting freely with Pearl, a relic from his past… it gave him a giddy feeling he couldn’t really describe.

Wilbur whined, babbling incoherently and returning Phil’s attention to him. Once Wilbur noticed that his father’s gaze was back on him, he rocked in his lap again, clapping his hands until he fell over, rolling over and falling on his back. He blinked a few times, seemingly surprised, but didn’t cry.

“You just love the attention, don’t you?” He chuckled, tapping Wilbur on the nose. His son giggled, and Phil grabbed a toy xylophone from the corner, setting it in front of Wilbur before standing up and stretching, wings brushing the walls. Out of tune notes started a moment later, Wilbur having taken the mallet and started haphazardly bangining on the toy. “How goes the cake, ladies?” He asked, retracting his wings and entering the kitchen.

“Almost done with the icing,” Kristin said, smiling at him. “Pearl’s keeping an eye on the cake.”

Phil’s gaze moved downwards, and sure enough, his old friend was crouched in front of the stove, eyes wide with wonder.

“Phil, the batter is  _ hardening _ ,” she said, astonished. 

“Well, that is something cakes do,” he replied, leaning on the counter. A quick glance behind him showed that Wilbur was still thoroughly being entertained by the xylophone. “Think we have a few more minutes?”

“That sounds about right,” Kristin agreed, moving over to grab some powdered sugar near Phil, kissing him on the cheek as she did so. “Will you go get the presents? I’ll keep an eye on Wilbur.”

“Gladly,” he replied, ruffling Pearl’s hair as he moved to go up the stairs. He and Kristin lived comfortably, but they didn’t have a ton of money to flaunt on gifts. Still, they’d managed to throw together something special for their little one. He grabbed the packages left at the foot of his and Kristin’s bed, holding them delicately as he made his way downstairs. They went on one end of the table, then he and Pearl started setting the silverware while Kristin iced the cake and finished up with dinner.

The meal was simple but hearty. Kristin had cooked up some pike Phil had caught a few days back, which the adults enjoyed while Wilbur gorged himself on sweet potatoes and applesauce. Cake went over even better; the look on Pearl and Wilbur’s faces upon trying the dessert for the first time were nearly identical, sending Kristin and Phil into hysterics.

Presents came after that. Phil helped Wilbur with some of the laces and ribbons, but for the most part Wilbur had more fun ripping at the paper wrapping than with the actual presents themselves. He got several new clothes, some made by Kristin and Phil with the others bought in town, along with an orca plushie, new foods to try, and some rubber balls. 

By the time the main event was over, the sun had set, turning the world dark. Wilbur was starting to drift off, but was fighting the urge to sleep, blinking rapidly and babbling slowly. 

“Alright, looks like the outer fence is holding up,” Kristin said, peering out the window. “We shouldn’t get any mobs in the yard tonight.”

“Perfect,” Phil smiled. He leaned down and picked up Wilbur from his high chair, setting him down on his lap. His son whined a little bit as Phil dressed him in one of his new winter coats, gently fitting his wings through the slats in the back that he’d sewn in. “We were planning on having some s’mores tonight, Pearl. Want to join us?”

“S’mores?” His friend asked, standing up. 

“You’ll see,” Phil said, waiting to walk with her. Already half-asleep, Wilbur was too tired to protest being near her. 

Coats and gloves were put on and the trio walked outside. Kristin started the fire and showed Pearl the basics of how to roast marshmallows. Phil sat back, watching the two contently as he fed Wilbur small bits off a graham cracker. He was too young to have something as sticky as a marshmallow, but he seemed entranced by the flickering flames of the fire, lazily reaching for the next bit of food his father had for him.

“This is  _ delicious _ ,” Pearl gasped, holding the gooey marshmallow between a pair of graham crackers. Kristin laughed, having her own dessert with a twinkle in her eye. 

“There’s a lot to learn from the outside world,” Phil said knowingly. “I know you’ve already seen it, but you should have seen my face when Kristin showed me the ocean for the first time.”

“How can there even be so much water in one place?” Pearl asked, giving a fervent nod of agreement as she finished off her s’more, licking her fingers. 

“There’s a lot that the overworld has to offer,” Kristin put in. “I think that you’ll be having a lot of adventures over the next few years, Pearl.”

Wilbur’s hand flopped down on Phil’s chest as he started snoring softly. Phil ran his hands through his son’s hair, each strand just an inch or so long as he stood up, walking over to Pearl. 

“Do you want to hold him?” He asked. “Wil’s just knocked himself out, so I don’t think he’ll care if a stranger is touching him.”

Pearl blinked a few times, before nodding in excitement. Phil bent down, dislodging Wilbur’s hands from his shirt and passing him down to the younger woman. Phil showed her how to properly hold him, taking special care to not pin the wings, which liked to twitch every so often. Soon enough, Wilbur was curling into Pearl’s chest, still deep asleep. 

“Aw,” Kristin cooed. “You two look adorable.”

“He’s… so warm,” Pearl said. “A lot warmer than I thought he’d be.”

“Babies do tend to run hot,” Phil replied. “Plus, he’s been leaning on me for the last half hour. Little leech.” He laughed. 

“Phil,” Pearl said, nudging him with her foot. She was looking over his shoulder. 

Phil turned around, just in time to see a dark shape dropping from the sky. There was a spike of the same fear he’d felt when Pearl had arrived, before he calmed himself, walked a few meters away, and spread his own wings. He beat them once, twice, enough to propel him a few feet off the ground and towards the figure standing in the snow. 

“Grian!” He shouted, barrelling into him. His old friend yelped as he was bowled over by the taller of the two, sending them rolling into the snow. 

“Philza!” Grian replied once he’d caught his breath, spitting some snow out of his mouth. A red and blue wing whacked him in the side, spraying snow over both of them. “Get off of me, you big doofus!” 

“It’s been  _ six years _ !”

“Ew, you smell like smoke!”

Phil gave an affronted gasp, knocking Grian on the head. “You’re one to talk, Mr. TNT.”

“You prank Xisuma  _ one time _ —” 

“Shut up.” 

Grian heaved, shoving Phil into the snow. He landed face-down, and hurriedly sat up, shaking the flakes out of his hair and then his feathers. 

“You  _ prick _ ,” he gasped, punching him in the shoulder. Grian just laughed, breath frosting in the air. “Just so you know, Pearl made it here just fine. Want to stay for the night? There’s some people you need to meet.”

**Author's Note:**

> The person who guesses who Wilbur is named after gets a virtual cookie.


End file.
